


God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

by TheScribbler_CMB



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Babies, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Happy, Love, Loving Marriage, Marriage, Pregnancy, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScribbler_CMB/pseuds/TheScribbler_CMB
Summary: A one-shot from my series The Thornton Tales to try and give us all some Christmas cheer. This fluffy short story follows Margaret and John Thornton as they gather around their Christmas tree and think about all the comfort and joy they have been blessed with. They thank God for the contentment they cherish in their marriage and all the love they share with and for their children.
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton Margaret Hale & John Thornton
Kudos: 9





	God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

_GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN_

_PART 1 OF 1_

Margaret lingered by the window.

She had been standing there for some time, her eyes flitting anxiously between the mill gate and the mantel clock.

Surely, they should have been back by now.

She did not even realise that her foot was tapping, nor that she was biting her nails, a nervous habit that her own mother would have been aghast at, promptly batting Margaret’s hand away and telling her to sit on her fingers if she could not refrain from nibbling her nails. However, the doting parent would soon have smirked at her dear daughter and tutted tenderly.

God rest her soul.

It was bitterly cold outside and Margaret took a deep breath before exhaling on the glass so that it fogged, the steam spreading like an opaque apparition. Then, taking her forearm, she rubbed at it, creating a clearer picture for her to look out and gaze at the wintry world that lay on the other side of the frame, as she waited restlessly for their return.

Thankfully, the snow was not falling so heavily now, which was a stroke of luck, she supposed. There had been a blizzard during the night, which had coated the earth in a thick white sheet, much like a generous layer of icing atop a Christmas cake. The cobbles of the yard could no longer be seen, instead, they were buried beneath a blanket that sparkled with speckles of snowflakes, each one winking in the bright sunlight.

It reminded Margaret of what her mother had told her when she was a child. She said that when the snow glittered like that, they were not diamonds, as Margaret had hitherto suspected, no, they were the tears of the angels. Her mother would sit the infant on her knee and explain in her lyrical tone that archangels had been flying high above and the dews from their eyes had fallen from the heavens, scattering across the land as twinkling tears. Margaret had not liked this, for it had made her sad to think of the cherubs weeping, but her mother had reassured her, promising that they were not tears of sadness, but tears of joy at the birth of the baby Jesus.

Margaret smiled fondly at the memory. How she missed her parents at Christmas, but still, her heart did not grieve, for she had a new home now, a new family, one who she loved, and one who loved her more than words could say. She knew that her mother and father would be happy for her and that they would be looking down and blessing their child’s cherished life as a wife and mother in her own right.

As the sun peeked at her from behind a row of chimneys, each one billowing smoke as the households cooked their festive geese and roasted their chestnuts, Margaret’s attention was caught by a blinking of light behind her. She turned and gazed dreamily as a prism pranced around the room and fell on the Thornton’s Christmas tree. Margaret let her eyes scour it, for it really was such an enchanting sight. It was a huge thing, ridiculous really, because the man who they had requested it from and who had delivered it had grossly misunderstood John’s dimensions. It was outlandishly tall and broad, its pine needle fingers scratching the walls and ceiling with its outstretched branches of arms.

John had been livid, bless him, grumbling about how on earth they were supposed to get it inside and what a God-awful mess it would make when it wilted, its tattered remains shrivelling and shedding all over the floor. He had griped that they would need to break down the front door just to drag the monstrosity in from the cold, lest it turn to a solid block of green ice. Nevertheless, his irritation had soon appeased at the gleeful look on his children’s excited faces at the sight of such a wonder. Their mouths had fallen open, their eyes had gone wide, and they had gasped in awe, and John, well, he had given in to them, as always, smiling and shaking his head as he muttered something about them having him wrapped around their little fingers. Taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, it had taken the master along with six stout men to haul the titan of a tree into the house and erect it, each of them sweating and panting from the exertion.

However, it had been worth it, for it really was magical. It was lusciously green, its branches elongated in a show of magnificent majesty. It had the lulling smell of a forest, reminding Margaret of her days as a girl, running through the woods in Helstone with Fred. Margaret often found herself standing beside it and slowly breathing in and out, allowing her lungs to fill with the calming scent of childhood. Hannah had done a marvellous job coordinating the festooning, the end result transforming the naked oak into something spectacular in both its loveliness and grandeur. The candles which rested cautiously on each bough were quite glorious, glowing beautifully like a beacon of hope and faith amidst the darkness of the midwinter nights.

Walking around it, Margaret gently flicked all the baubles that bejewelled the jade robe of foliage that swathed the brown twigs. All the colours were captivating, as each ornament dangled splendidly on its assigned stem, the collective vibrancy a testimony to the triumph of the season. The Thorntons had acquired their trimmings from here and there and everywhere over the years. Fanny had advised that they order only the finest garlands from the very best establishments, preferably from London, of course. However, Margaret had privately protested at her sister-in-law’s ostentatious decorations, instead opting to make most of them herself with the children. They had also been gifted many crafted items by their employees over the past five years of their marriage, including sticks of holly, tiny carved angels, yards of ribbon, and even a painted wooden star of gold. Dear Fanny may have found such modest trinkets tawdry, but to Margaret, they were not just embellishments made for elegance, but a reminder of all the happiness the Thorntons shared and all the blessings they had to thank God for. Yes, each ornament was not just an object, but a witness to their lives together as a contented family.

Bending her knees, Margaret crouched to examine the bottom of the tree and giggled, her maternal delight swelling in her breast. She laughed as she studied the specific corner that had evidently been allocated for the children alone to spruce. Oh dear! All the knickknacks were clumped together, so much so that they weighed the poor tree down, causing it to sag under the bulk of their enthusiastic endeavours. They had fashioned their own baubles and bells, which they were as proud as punch of, and they had hung them with such care.

When John had first strolled in and spied their efforts, Margaret could see a glimmer of a grimace behind his eyes, as she knew that the meticulous master in him liked everything to be well-ordered, his nature being finely tuned towards scrupulousness and symmetry. Nevertheless, he soon beamed with fatherly pride and knelt to inspect their works of art, his soul overflowing with love for his little ones. He had sat them on his lap, and they had each shown him their hard work, and John, ever the affectionate parent, had inspected each of their handcrafts in turn and marvelled at their skill. He had oohed and aahed at all of it, his children overjoyed by their papa’s applause and unconditional adoration.

There had even been a drawing that the twins had done of Mary on a donkey, and it was their father’s favourite, for the saintly couple did not stop at an inn or stable as the Bible may have documented, but instead, came to rest at Marlborough Mills of all places. Even although John could not tell what end was supposed to be the animal’s ears and what end the tail, he had placed it in a desk drawer in his office to preserve, and, to this day, it remained there, being taken out every now and again and admired. Although, even now, he was still not convinced it was a donkey.

As the clock struck midday, Margaret startled. Blinking, she swiftly glided towards the window once more, and standing on her tiptoes, she searched the yard for any sign of movement, her temple crinkled with worry.

‘Where are you?’ she whispered.

Then, finally, her senses twitched as she saw somebody striding towards the mill gate. Squinting and ducking her head between the frosted panes to get a better look, she spotted a man approaching. He was large both in height and breadth, his shoulders squared against the wind that whipped around him in the northern air. His back was cloaked in a thick woollen coat and his neck was wrapped in a navy-blue scarf, one she would recognise anywhere, as she herself had knitted it last year.

It was _them_. They were home. At last!

Margaret hurriedly pulled her shawl tighter around her and swiftly scurried away along the passageway. She did not even stop to put on suitable shoes, but hastened in her slipper feet, her toes curling and complaining against the chill. Once she had flung open the front door, she stood on the balcony and watched as the man drew near. He was tall, handsome, his dark hair flecked by the sleet that floated down idly from a salt-and-pepper sky. He trudged through the courtyard, his head low against the breeze, and he drew his coat firmly around himself, cradling his chest.

As he ascended the steps towards the house, his gaze lifted, and his eyes narrowed as he saw her standing there. He paused and let his scrutiny comb over her, and he frowned at the way she was insufficiently dressed for the harsh climate, the tips of her slippers peeping out, the edges of the delicate material soaked by the slush.

‘Oye!’ he chastised softly; his jaw tensing in that way it did when he was cross. However, if Margaret looked carefully, she could see the hint of a smile behind his façade of frustration. ‘What in God’s name are you doing out here, woman?’ he quipped, his brow furrowed in faux exasperation. ‘You will freeze!’

Reaching the top of the steps, the man towered over her, his head reaching far higher than her own, causing her to tilt her neck so that she could peer up at him. At first, he feigned a scolding scowl, a look of rebuke for her reckless behaviour. Nevertheless, it soon melted, and he smiled at her warmly, his eyes shining with tenderness. Leaning down, he kissed her on the forehead and brushed his nose affectionately against her own, the tip of hers having turned red in the biting breeze, making it resemble a cherry.

‘What if your darling little nose had turned to ice?’ he asked, his hot breath tickling her neck. ‘I would be heartbroken.’

Margaret beamed back and blushed, an attractive tint colouring her cheeks, which the man utterly adored. He used his thumb to sweep away the droplets of frozen rain that had begun to thaw on her eyelashes, wondering what he had done to deserve such a divine being.

‘Then I should take your nose, Sir,’ she joked. ‘For it is a rather lovely one,’ she tallied, wrinkling her own as he kissed it lightly, his moist lips tingling her skin.

They stayed there for just a moment and gazed at each other lovingly amidst the frosty afternoon, the pair framed like a picture by the dark doorway behind, their scenery a fairyland of fluttering snow.

At last, Margaret stepped aside and welcomed her husband home. ‘Come now, John, I need my Mr Thornton inside and out of the cold,’ she said, shepherding him into the mill house, her glance swooping upon his coat.

Once they were indoors, Margaret raced back to the parlour, her head constantly turning to ensure that her husband was close behind. She could see that his hands were pale and even although he tried to hide it, he shivered slightly as he held his coat snugly and securely around him. She wanted him to get warm by the roaring fire, the one she had been stoking relentlessly for the last half hour in anticipation of his return.

‘I was getting worried,’ she said at last, as she ushered John towards the hearth, the coal crackling away cheerfully. She reached out distractedly to stroke the stockings that hung over the marble ledge, one for each of their children. They were made of vivid cloth, the names handstitched by their loving grandmother.

‘I was not _that_ long,’ he insisted, chuckling at her bothering.

‘Yes, you were! I was convinced that something had happened to you. It is so very cold outside, and the pavements are icy. I thought you may have slipped or become stuck in a ditch,’ she fretted.

‘Hush,’ he soothed, reaching out to caress her cheek. In doing so, he fingered a stray tendril of hair and tucked it behind her ear. ‘All is well, my love,’ he promised. ‘Although, it is rewarding to know that I have a wife waiting for me at home who worries so sweetly for my welfare,’ he included. Then chortling, he added: ‘All the same, my dearest one, I doubt it was me you were so concerned about.’

Margaret smiled, her hand gently plucking at the fringes of his coat and peering within, her eyes checking the cocoon of its cosy confines.

‘Were they happy to see you?’ she inquired. ‘I know how much the children enjoy having you there. They think you are a bear, one they take pleasure in poking and seeing if it will growl,’ she laughed.

John had been to see the Higgins family; a tradition Mr and Mrs Thornton gladly undertook every Christmas Eve. Each year, they would go to their humble home to break bread and revel in the spirit of the season. It was a tradition born of goodwill, and one they cherished sharing with their brethren, those they considered their kin. However, today, Margaret had lingered at home. She had not been well of late and after the counsel of Dr Donaldson and the concern of her doting husband, they had persuaded her to remain in bed. She had not been keen to stay behind, but John had assured her that their friends would understand, and that they too would only wish for her to be safe and strong.

‘Aye, they were,’ he replied jovially. ‘Although, I do not think anybody was that interested in seeing me,’ he remarked, the dimples in his cheeks creasing as he smirked.

Margaret simpered. ‘No, I suppose not. You will have been second best, I am afraid. Poor you, Mr Thornton, at least I still love you, even if you are old, dull and grouchy,’ she teased, leaning in to envelop her arms around his waist, wary not to press too tight.

‘Excuse me!’ he scoffed, ‘That is some fine way for a wife to welcome her man home! I demand a kiss as a way of apology!’ he stipulated, bending down to graze his lips across her own.

Margaret giggled as she felt his stubbled jaw scratch against her, a feeling she never tired of. She liked that John was never entirely clean-shaven, as it gave him a slight roguish appearance, and she felt a prickling pleasure every time he scuffed her with his sideburns, reminding her of a nuzzling tomcat.

‘Did they like the gifts?’ she checked, once again glimpsing at the inside of his coat.

‘They most certainly did,’ he beamed. ‘The children were incredibly grateful, the little mites. They were thrilled by all the food you sent; it was enough to feed an entire army. Higgins nearly refused it on account of his pride ─ you know how he always does ─ but he knew you would be inconsolable if he denied the children the right to taste your baking. Now, that figgy pudding you prepared; I have to say that I was terribly jealous! I wouldn’t have minded staying to gorge on that myself. And they liked the mittens you had crocheted, along with the hats and scarves,’ he described.

‘Well done, Meg, you are as thoughtful and generous as ever, my darling,’ he praised, stroking her hair which fell in a loose plait over her shoulder, the tapestry of shades illuminated by the thin shaft of light that shone on her.

‘Did Tom like his books?’

‘Aye, he did. He is such a bright lad, Meg, truly. He’s got a sharp a mind as any. He’s still liking school and absorbing everything he can learn. I thought he would like Plato, hence why I got it for him. He’s perhaps a bit young yet, but it’s never too early to start. Besides, I thought your father would have approved,’ he said warmly.

‘Yes,’ she nodded wistfully. ‘He would.’

She knew how fond John was of little Tom, although, he was not so little now, as he was near enough as tall as Margaret. John had become like an uncle to the lad and assisted in every way he could with his education. He even took the boy to his office on Sunday afternoons and the two of them would sit side-by-side, methodically balancing the books and seeing to any other business that the budding scholar could help with. Margaret knew John liked the company, as he did not have many friends, for he was not the naturally sociable type. That is, he was less temperamental than before, but he did not instinctively take to people. He did not have the tolerant disposition or the affable aptitude that some possessed which allowed them to converse easily with others. He found people to be irksome, their droll small talk driving him to distraction. No, John had always insisted that Margaret was the only person other than his mother that he liked, and so, he thanked God that she had eventually decided to like him in return.

However, Margaret knew that John was fond of Nicholas and his wonderfully unconventional family. They were an odd bunch and that suited John and Margaret perfectly, for they were odd too. John and Nicholas would sit for hours and talk, never once agreeing on anything from politics to philosophy, always bickering amiably, but she knew that when and where it mattered most, they understood each other, for both their hearts beat with honour, and such men always find affinity in a kindred spirit. It was a harmony, one that transcended their different lots in life and transformed man and master into something more meaningful even than friends, it reformed them into equals.

Sighing contentedly, Margaret gazed up at her husband. ‘Now then, John Thornton, it is Christmas Eve and you have still not told me what you would like. I have no idea what to purchase for you or compose for you for that matter. You do not seem to want anything! No books, no attire, no food, no writing materials, no ornaments, nothing! It is quite maddening, my love. So, do tell me, what do you desire? What do you wish your wife to gift you this Christmas?’

At this, John smiled at her, a gentle, tender smile that strummed the strings of her very soul. ‘Margaret, my darling girl,’ he breathed raspingly. ‘You do not need to get me a present, not when you have already given me the most precious gift of all this Christmas.’

‘And what is that?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling in the firelight.

John grinned at her and then, with affectionate care, he unfolded his coat. There, cuddled close to his heart was a slumbering babe, no more than two weeks old. The little lamb was fast asleep, his lungs rising and falling, his tiny fingers curled around the cotton of his father’s shirt. Every now and again he would yawn and stretch, but he would soon settle, nestling nearer to the warm body that sheltered him, and returned to the land of nod, where no doubt, he was having the most pleasant of dreams.

‘Oh, John,’ she whispered, ‘He is perfect!’

‘That, he is,’ John agreed. ‘He’s breath-taking. Ten tiny fingers. Ten tiny toes. Hair as black as mine. Eyes as mesmerising as yours. When he looks at me with his curious gaze, I feel overwhelmed by my love for him and I cannot quite believe that he is mine, that he is ours. I cannot believe that our blood runs through his veins, John Thornton and Margaret Hale. He is half of me and half of you. Yes, my love, perfect is the right word, for I cannot think of anything more perfect than that.’

Stroking her baby’s cheeks, Margaret rested her head against her husband’s shoulder, her eyes starting to droop with weariness. ‘I really _was_ worried about you both,’ she confessed. ‘It is so terribly cold outside.’

‘Oh, come now, love,’ John soothed. ‘It may be cold, but he is made of sturdy northern stock, he doesn’t mind it, do you my boy?’ he cooed, the babe’s head lolling in his sleep. ‘Besides, the fresh air will have done him some good. Higgins and the Bouchers wanted to see him so much and he was just fine,’ he insisted, his thumb stroking the baby’s petite fingers, which wrapped around his father’s giant ones, making John’s heart soar.

‘He is as snug as a bug in a rug, Meg,’ John vowed. ‘I guarantee you that he is cosier than Christ was himself in that manger of his. Don’t fret, sweetheart, our son is safe. Do you really think I would have it any other way?’

Margaret stared at the tiny infant who was clasped close to his father’s chest and she smiled. There was something humbling to see such a big, solid, muscular man holding such a fragile bundle in his burly arms. There was something so tender about John and she knew that he would never let anything happen to their little ones, no matter what.

‘No,’ she assented. ‘No, darling, I know he was in the best place possible, his father’s arms,’ she said kindly. ‘For I know from experience that there is nowhere more snug, nowhere more secure, and nowhere I would rather be.’

Both John and Margaret stood in silence as they looked at him, their hearts overflowing with love for the latest addition to the Thornton family. His name was Nicholas, Nicholas Thornton, named after the very man that he had visited this day. He had been born eleven days ago and his birth had not been an easy one. He had come early and most inconveniently, for Margaret had been at the Higgins’ home, helping Mary prepare for her wedding, which was to be on St Stephen’s Day. Margaret had been measuring Mary for her dress and then, suddenly, she had stopped. She had felt a jolt in her stomach and what was more unsettling, she had sensed a warm liquid trickling down her legs, and she realised that her waters had come away. The labour had been too fast and too excruciating for Margaret to travel home, so, she had been obliged to give birth there. They had managed to get her to a bed and just a short while later, a baby boy, her fourth child, had been welcomed into the world.

Nicholas Higgins had been astoundingly calm and efficient, listening to his daughter’s instructions and aiding them in whatever way he could with hot water and clean linens. By the time the doctor had arrived, he was too late, for it was all over. Then, when John had come bursting through the door like a man possessed, he had been greeted with the sight and sound of his son, whose shrill cries could be heard all the way down the street. John had been stunned and fallen to his knees beside the bed, mumbling apologies for not being there sooner and peppering both his wife and new-born with gentle kisses.

When he found out that Nicholas had been both competent and comforting throughout the whole ordeal, John had taken his hand and shook it firmly, not letting go for some time. When the couple finally left the Princeton house and walked down the narrow alleyways towards their carriage, the lanes had been lined with people waving and cheering, all sneaking a peek at the new arrival. It was like a procession, a guard of honour, each of them flapping their caps and swishing their aprons, a spirit of community and celebration in the air. They patted Margaret’s arm and slapped John on the back, each offering their hearty congratulations to Milton’s most highly respected master and his lovely wife for the birth of their wean. Needless to say, the baby’s head was wet many times that night, as townsfolk made merry, raising a glass to:

‘Mr, Mrs, and Mr Thornton. May God Bless them!’

However, as joyful as the birth of Nicholas was, it had not been an easy one. It had been painful and arduous, for the babe had been in an awkward position and it had been a strain to push. Consequently, even although Margaret had survived reasonably unscathed, in the days that followed, even she had to admit that she did not feel at all well. The mother had aches and pains in her tummy and below. It hurt to move, and Margaret found herself wincing every time she rose or sat, causing her to feel tired and a little dizzy. This had alarmed John, for he was anxious on her behalf at the best of times, but to hear her actually acknowledge that she was ill was a sure sign that something was very wrong indeed. He had immediately summoned the doctor, who had advised a strict period of bedrest for the poorly mother.

Margaret had conceded for a day or two, unable to abide John’s fussing, but had soon become bored, so had ventured out of bed to roam about the house like some sort of stray cat. However, she had been hasty in her confidence and had felt lightheaded, but before she had made it back to her chamber, she fainted, collapsing on the floor in a heap. Hannah had found her lying at the top of the stairs, and after calling John, he had rushed home at once, lifted his unconscious wife into his arms, carried her to bed, and stayed by her side morning noon and night.

Thankfully, she had recovered promptly from her swoon, but still, John was accepting no excuses, his authoritarian disposition dominating the situation. He insisted that she was to stay there until he gave her permission to get up and no disobedience would be tolerated. He refused to let her lift a finger and she was not even allowed to sit up by herself. He had also delegated as much work as possible to his employees, so that he himself could be at home with his wife to watch over her. When she had tried to argue, he had raised his eyebrows and asserted that he never dictated to her, _never_ , but just this once, she was to listen, and he would lock the two of them in the room and throw away the key if necessary.

Dear John! Margaret had loved him for his protectiveness and had given in to the master’s mandates, despite thinking his mollycoddling ludicrous. Therefore, she had submissively spent the past nine days in bed, her husband nursing her, her mother-in-law keeping her sane, and her children cheering her. Through the efforts of this trinity, her health was soon restored, and now, the discomfort was beginning to pass, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, Margaret had risen from the confines of her bed, dressed, and braved going downstairs.

‘That reminds me,’ John suddenly stated, rousing her from her drowsy daze. ‘Where are the rest of our brood?’ he asked, his head turning and his eyes scanning the room. ‘It is suspiciously quiet,’ he noted warily. ‘Don’t tell me, the boys have done something and are hiding from me?’ he sighed wearily. ‘God! – I love them, but they are a handful and make no mistake. What is it this time? Have they broken something valuable? Have they drawn on something irreplaceable? Oh, I know, they’ve fed the goose to the stray dog that wanders the mill, is that it?’ he predicted.

Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, John! You are quite wrong, my love, and since you shall never guess, I shall have to tell you. They are all…,’ she began, leaning in to whisper a secret, ‘ _asleep_ ,’ she finished with a reticent hiss.

John’s eyes broadened and then he sharpened them in disbelief. ‘Asleep? All at once? Our lot? Never!’

‘It is true,’ she assented.

‘How? A hex? A sedative? A bribe?’ he joked.

‘Wrong, Mr Thornton! I assure you that no enchantment, or medicine, or subornment was required. No, it is simply that all our imps have tired themselves out by the excitement of Christmas and have taken to their beds for a nap, even the twins.’

‘Lord!’ John snorted, ‘It’s a Christmas miracle!’ Then, noticing his wife slouch on his arm for support, John added: ‘Well, darling, do you not think we should follow their lead, hmm? You are exhausted, Margaret, you should not be up, it is against the rules, you know. Come now, let us go lie down. You, me, and the baby.’

Margaret was ready to protest, disputing that she had far too much to attend to, but as she yawned widely, she found herself nodding her head, and before she knew it, John had managed to cautiously lift both her and the baby into his arms, and he carried them upstairs.

When they reached the bedroom, John placed Nicholas on his side of the bed. Then, he delicately laid Margaret down, arranged her head on the pillows, and covered her in blankets, being sure to tuck her in. He proceeded to kick off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and slip in beside her. Lastly, he picked up his son and held the sleeping baby against his chest. There they reposed together, father, mother, son.

As Margaret wriggled in her sleep, she instinctively shuffled closer to John and relaxed her head on his shoulder, stretching out her fingers to touch her two boys, making certain that they were still there by her side.

John smiled. There was nowhere he would rather be, nothing he would rather be doing.

‘God rest ye merry gentlemen,’ he whispered contentedly, reciting the opening line of his favourite carol.

‘Hmm?’ Margaret muttered groggily.

‘Nothing, love,’ he replied, kissing her hair. ‘Nothing, sleep, my angel.’

A few minutes later as John reclined on his bed, he was roused by a faint shuffling noise along the corridor. At first, he thought it sounded like mice scurrying, for the sound was muffled. He had not fully closed the door, and as he turned to look, he could see three pairs of eyes watching him. They did not move, but their owners were all hunched and huddled together, their curious gazes surveying the scene.

John grinned.

‘You know I can see you,’ he said quietly, as he tipped his head back against the cushions.

The eyes blinked and he heard the twittering of chatter.

‘And I can hear you.’

They giggled.

‘You can come in,’ he invited, knowing full well that this is what they were waiting for him to say.

The door opened and three small children ambled in, dashing towards the bed, the pitter-patter of their bare feet drumming on the floor. Their faces were lit up like the Christmas tree and they started to leap and bounce on the bed in excitement.

‘Hey-hey-hey!’ John scolded softly, lifting a finger to his lips. ‘Mama and the baby are sleeping! You need to be quiet!’

‘Yes, Pa,’ Richard granted.

‘Sorry, Da,’ Danny added.

‘We’ll be good, Father,’ Maria swore.

John smiled as his three other children began to shamble around in the big bed and arrange themselves snugly. Maria curled up beside her mother, placing herself at Margaret’s back and draping an arm over her, their same-coloured chestnut hair flowing on the pillows and blending as one. The twins, Richard and Daniel, wriggled to settle themselves around their father. One seemed to cling to his belly and legs, while the other seemed to clamber over his head and wrapped his hands around John’s face. They all gave their parents a gentle kiss and the baby an even more tender one.

Yawning, the tangle of Thorntons drifted off to sleep one by one. As John thought about his past, he remembered all the cheerless Christmases he had experienced before Margaret. The day used to be lonely, empty, pointless, just another day. But now, it was warm, it was cosy, it was hopeful, it was magical. But it was not because of the presents, or the tree, or the dinner, or even the birth of his Lord Jesus Christ. No, it was because of something much more precious: family.

It was all down to the jumble of Thorntons that lay strewn around him, each one a treasure worth more than any gold, frankincense or myrrh. Jesus may have come to Earth in the flesh of man in order to bring salvation, but for John, Margaret was _his_ salvation and his family with her was his Heaven.

Yes, as John smiled contentedly this Christmas Eve, he knew that he had found his miracle, for that is what they were to him, Margaret, Maria, Richard, Daniel, Nicholas, and any other children they may have, they were each his everything. 

They were his comfort and his joy.

‘Yes,’ he murmured closing his eyes. ‘God rest _this_ merry gentleman.’


End file.
